


music you’ve never heard

by tigriswolf



Series: comment_fic drabbles [243]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Political Animals
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non Canonical Immortal, POV Alternating, Panic, References to Addiction, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:37:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're lucky I was passing through," the man says as soon as TJ's awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	music you’ve never heard

**Author's Note:**

> Title: music you’ve never heard  
> Fandom: Political Animals/Highlander  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton  
> Warnings: references to addiction, panic, possibly implied past dub-con, suicidal implications  
> Pairings: past Methos/Kronos  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 2300  
> Prompts: any, any, sooner or later god's gonna cut you down ; any, any, Not all those who wander are lost ; any, any, "given the right motivation i probably could" ; any. any. one day at a time  
> Note: I don’t believe in that whole immortals-are-always-foundlings thing.  
> Another note: I really like having Methos adopt my favorites, can you tell?  
> Still another note: there might be more coming. maybe.

"You're lucky I was passing through," the man says as soon as TJ's awake. 

At least, he thinks he's awake. He hasn't felt this invigorated and healthy since -- well, before the drugs and drinking and partying. “Who are you?” he asks, sitting up. He’s clothed, at least. Sometimes, when he wakes up, he isn’t. 

“You see,” the man says, ignoring his question, “we have a problem here.” He gives TJ a smile that is probably meant to be charming, but all TJ can see is the threat behind it, in the man’s voice. The guy has dark hair and the lamp highlights his sharp hazel eyes, and TJ bites down the fear. 

“I asked,” he says, trying for Mom’s _you better listen to me_ tone, “who **are** you.” He has no idea what day it is, or time – the curtains are thick, pulled tight across the window. It’s possible – does anyone know he’s missing? _Is_ he missing? A single lamp is lit, a single bed, a table and chair – where the fuck is he?

“You can call me Adam, if you must,” _Adam_ says. “And our problem, Thomas James Hammond, is that at some point last night, you achieved a full death.” He flashes TJ another smile. 

“What?” TJ shakes his head, rolls his shoulders, and digs around the blankets for his phone. He’s not restrained, and he’s clothed, and nothing hurts. This is the weirdest kidnapping ever, if it _is_ a kidnapping. 

“Do you hear or feel a hum in the back of your head?” Adam asks. 

And, actually, TJ does. It’s low but there, and after he notices it, it just… goes away. The fuck? 

“That’s how our kind find one another,” Adam says. His tone isn’t flippant anymore, almost gentle instead. “And some of them attempt to kill whoever they find for the life essence. The soul, if you will.” He spreads his hands, shrugging. “I haven’t had a student since Byron, but I suppose someone should look after you, and it’s not like MacLeod knows how to be subtle.” 

“You can’t be serious,” TJ says, finally locating his phone: it’s on the table next to Adam’s chair. Definitely out of reach. 

Adam smirks, picking it up. “You’re in an interesting position,” he says. “I can only assume the never-ending bodyguards and security kept you safe from headhunters, but the very fact that your life is splashed across front pages –” He sighs, setting the phone back down. “It’s a danger to all of us, you understand.” 

There’s suddenly a knife in his hand. TJ flinches but – there’s nowhere to go. He doesn’t even know where he is. So he holds his head high and looks Adam right in the eye. 

“You’re brave,” Adam says, and then slices his own hand open. “Watch.” 

Blood gushes for just a second before lightning flickers across Adam’s palm, and the wound seals itself back up. 

“You will never age,” Adam says, setting the knife beside the phone. “You will die but awaken again. You will be hunted for your quickening. Should they learn of your existence, the Watchers will Watch you as they do all of us.” 

TJ rubs his forehead. “I died?” he asks. It’s not surprising, actually. He always figured he’d die young – burn out, overdose, hell maybe even a car ‘accident.’ He’d stop being the family fuck-up, and maybe finally get to sleep. 

Adam nods. “It was either the overdose or you hit your head too hard when you fell.” He shrugs. “Or both.”

Sighing, TJ slumps back down onto the bed. “Fucking hell,” he mutters. He can’t even die right. 

Adam’s laughter sounds just a little rueful. “Your life in the limelight is quite unfortunate,” he says. “However, Byron managed it multiple times so I think we can make it work.” 

“Byron?” TJ echoes. 

“Oh, yes, Byron.” Adam sighs and then recites softly, “[Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine](http://www.internal.org/George_Gordon_Lord_Byron/Farewell_to_the_Muse).” He sighs again. “Byron was gifted, as you are. I… failed him, I think.” TJ turns to watch Adam’s gaze settle on him. “I won’t fail you.” 

TJ can’t get a read on this guy, and he can usually read everyone. They want something – connections to his family, a fuck, drugs or booze, or hell, just a smile. TJ’s good at sussing it out and then giving it to them, whatever it is. This guy, Adam – TJ died, so Adam brought him here, to give him time to resurrect (or whatever), or he died here and Adam found him? If it’s a trick, it’s a stupid story to try to sell, and if it’s not... _I won’t fail you_ , Adam said. Fail at what? 

TJ bites his lip for a moment before confessing, “I disappoint everyone. I’ll probably fuck up somehow.” Whatever Adam wants, TJ’s sure to mess it all up. 

“You’re a child,” Adam says. “Now, get up and bathe. After that, we’ll start planning.” 

“Okay.” TJ rolls off the bed, stretches again, and heads for the bathroom. He wants to feel clean, and if Adam hasn’t hurt him yet, he probably won’t. And worrying about everything else (Mama, Dougie, Dad, Nana) it can wait.

…

While the boy showers, Methos reviews what he knows of Thomas Hammond. There is much information about him made readily available but what Methos focuses on are the suicide attempts and how useless his 'family' has been to him. The best thing for his student, Methos determines, is to get him far from his family's reach and begin from the ground up. The boy is brave and smart, though he hasn’t had much call to use his brains, and positive feedback seems like something he craves. 

The water ceases. Methos closes all of his browser tabs and watches the boy step out of the bathroom, a towel around his hips. 

The boy stops, staring at him. "You're still here," he says blankly. 

"Yes, I am," Methos answers, "for I am neither a dream nor a hallucination."

The boy snorts and then says, “Adam. I don’t suppose I can get your real name?” 

Methos shakes his head. “Not until you prove worthy.” He throws a bag of clean clothes over. “Now, what would you prefer I call you?” He politely looks away as the boy dresses. 

“Jim,” is what he finally says. “No one’s ever called me that before.” 

Methos smiles. “Then Jim you are. Now, let’s order some lunch and begin our discussion on your immediate future.” 

.

The first order of business is explaining the Game in full detail and that Methos is now Jim’s teacher. The second is convincing Jim that the best thing to do is to get him away from Washington DC and the press machine. 

Jim asks, “Does instant healing mean I can’t get drunk or high anymore?” 

Methos rolls his eyes. “You _can_ but it fades away quickly.” 

“Hmmph.” Jim pouts for a few seconds before sighing and staring down at his phone, waiting in his hand for him to hit CALL. “They’re not gonna want to let me go,” he says. “I mean… I do want out, I think. I have for awhile. Fuck, I hate DC. But…” 

The child has nothing he can’t walk away from, Methos knows. A nightclub that is barely his, a family busy with their own problems, and nothing else. Jim scoffs, “Mama’s running for president and we’re all supposed to stand up and support her, but I barely survived the first time.” He grins, bright and wide and fake, saying, “Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.” 

Methos reaches for the boy’s hand and grasps it tightly. “Do you want to leave DC, yes or no?” 

Jim inhales deeply, holds it, closes his eyes to exhale. “Yes,” he murmurs. 

“Then call your family. We leave tonight.” 

.

Jim explains that he’s calling while his brother and mother are in a meeting they can’t leave, his father is in the middle of an interview, and his grandmother is napping. He leaves each of them a voicemail explaining that he’s fine but he has to clear his head, so he’s heading away from DC from awhile. 

“Where to?” he asks after he hangs up.

Methos smiles at him. “Have you ever been to New Zealand?” 

…

On their way to the airport, they drop Jim’s cellphone at Nana’s house. He writes short notes to everyone, repeating what he said in the voicemails but also with small codewords to show he’s not under duress. The longest is to Dougie, and he finishes it with, _I love you all, but I can’t go be here anymore. This isn’t a suicidal stunt or anything – this is me deciding it’s time to start living again_. 

This is such a stupid thing to do, trusting Adam. But he knows how to read people. And he’s not an idiot, no matter what his family thinks. 

He’s been miserable for so long, and tried so many different coping methods. Nothing has worked or been right, and maybe… 

“Well, that’s everything,” he says, setting the envelopes on his bed beside his phone. He follows Adam down the stairs and locks the door behind them. 

…

Methos has had but a handful of students in all his years. Only one of them has known him as Methos, and he knows that no student will ever be Kronos’ equal. Jim is humming in the seat beside him, watching out the window, and Methos wonders what music there is yet to be.

He failed Byron, completely and irrevocably. Byron had been so bright and he burnt out, and Methos had already moved on, so sure that Byron was ready for immortality. Of course, Jim cannot replace Byron, but he, too, is so bright, with such fire.

“They’re gonna be so pissed,” Jim laughs, throwing his head back and letting the mirth fill him. 

He looks alive. 

.

Methos waits until jetlag isn't hounding Jim anymore before seeing how well he knows how to fight. They've settled into his flat in Auckland, eaten, napped, bathed, and Methos digs out a spare sword. 

The thing that horrifies most of the newly-risen immortals is the certainty of fighting for their lives. The further into this ‘modern area’ they are from, the more horrified they are. There was no Game when Methos taught Kronos – and a thousand years later, when Methos finally left him, the Game had been invented. It has gotten completely out of control and perhaps he could’ve stopped it, in the beginning. Had he been so inclined. 

There is a spark in Jim and that’s good; but he’s soft, too. He’s been protected in some ways, left to fend for himself in others, and the only way to survive immortality is to _want_ to live. 

Methos wants to live and so he has, for thousands of years. He knows when to fight and he knows when to run, and he knows how to make others fight in his stead. 

“I live by three rules,” he tells Jim, holding out the sword. Jim takes the hilt with wide eyes, and Methos says, “Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day.” 

“Why am I holding a sword?” Jim asks, fingers clenched around the hilt. 

“Because you must learn to use it,” Methos says. “Of course, I’ll also teach you knives, guns, hand-to-hand.” Jim gapes at him and Methos raises an eyebrow. “You will fight for nothing less than your survival, Jim. Would you kill to stay alive?” 

Jim looks at the blade and Methos gives him time to consider it. “Some immortals might hunt me, you said,” Jim finally murmurs, running one fingertip along the edge of the blade, parting the skin. “For my quickening. They’ll kill me if I don’t kill them first.” Blood drips onto the blade and Jim meets Methos’ eyes. “I want to live,” he says. 

Methos smiles. “Good.” 

.

In the past thirty years, Methos has lost quite a lot. Darius, Rebecca, his brothers, his youngest student, Kronos… he has Joe’s friendship, and Amanda’s, and could possibly re-earn Duncan’s, should he choose to. He’s been avoiding the Watchers since the turn of the century, and Duncan for longer. It’s been quiet, a nice rest after the excitement of his time as MacLeod’s friend. A bit lonely, as well, which he’d counteracted by throwing himself into Ashton Matthews’ life as a poly-sci major. Ashton joined three separate clubs at college so he never had a dull moment. 

He’d been driving past a shitty motel when he felt a pre-immortal’s buzz explode into a true immortal’s. It was curiosity, ever his downfall, that led him to breaking into the room. The body was in the bathroom, head cracked open on the counter, apparently. It was unclear if that or the overdose had been the death of him. 

Of course Methos recognized him. What was there to do but grab the boy and bring him somewhere safe, wait for him to wake? 

…

Adam is in the kitchen with a mug of cocoa and Jim steps in to says, “I’m going to outlive them all.” 

“If I do right by you, yes,” Adam replies. There’s a second mug set in front of the empty chair, so Jim sighs, going over to sit. 

“We can take a couple months, get your head on straight,” Adam says, “and then we’ll go back.” He smiles at Jim. “No one knows you died, which gives you a one-up on most of us.” 

Jim sips the cocoa and then nods. “A few months of quiet and training,” he agrees, “and then I’ll visit them.” Sounds like a plan.


End file.
